


I'm (not) okay.

by Emerald_Mischief



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, I miss Tony, I need to get things out of my drafts, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Its likely boring, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Tony trashes his expensive things, Why Did I Write This?, im so sorry, my small boi, no loki in this one? what is the world coming to, not really done but I can't really end it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_Mischief/pseuds/Emerald_Mischief
Summary: He felt so small, so insignificant to everyone that looked up to him, they always saw him in a suit of armor but he didn’t live in it. He didn’t live in it and he wasn’t as strong outside of it, it was all a facade and he was so angry that he was so good at it.
Kudos: 3





	I'm (not) okay.

Tony undid his tie inch by inch as the day seemed to wear on, it just seemed the more people he met, the more he interacted with...the tighter his chest got, the harder it was to breathe around the knot he tied himself. He had a few very important things to accomplish that day, he had to put on a good face, a good front, the Tony everyone knew. In the end, he left an hour early and all but broke down in his car on his way back home, his mind was so overwhelmed that any noise was setting him on edge, the radio was more stressful on his mind than it was easing it.

He had been biting on the inside of his cheek so hard he was beginning to taste blood, which made him quickly exit his car so he could vomit in his garden upon arriving home. He quickly got up and headed inside, stripping off his jacket, tossing his tie away from his throat and padding his way into his room. He immediately went down into his office, his safe place, immediately taking a place at his computer to begin typing, making changes to things he was building. 

He couldn’t do it for long, the screen started to become double, his head swimming with thoughts and worries, he was getting distracted with the pounding in his head, against his ribs, he couldn’t type right, couldn’t breathe, still. He slammed his hand down on his keyboard, flat palmed against the letters, it made a god awful noise and the computer hated the sudden input. He sighed before slamming his fist down against the keyboard again, and again, and again until he heard the plastic crack under the force of his hand. 

Why didn’t anything make sense anymore? Why couldn’t he function like he used to? He grabbed the plastic broken keyboard and tossed it across the room, hearing it hit things, knocking them over. He was sure he broke more than just his keyboard, he couldn’t bring himself to care much about it. Except he cared too much. Too much about everything and yet he felt so numb all the time. He couldn’t feel anything good. He was numb to everything but the bad. He looked along the counter he was working on, he frowned a bit before reaching out to gently push the computer screen off. He then began to do that with all of them, hearing them all crash down to the floor, half of them broke, the other half didn’t. 

What did it matter? Everything was too much. He couldn’t stand it and yet he was paralyzed by it. He slowly sunk down against the end of the cabinet, knocking over his chair in the process, drawing his knees up to his chest. He felt his bottom lip tremble, his eyes unwillingly fill with tears over absolutely nothing and absolutely everything. He wrapped his arms around his knees, bringing them closer before hiding his face against them. He felt so small, so insignificant to everyone that looked up to him, they always saw him in a suit of armor but he didn’t live in it. He didn’t live in it and he wasn’t as strong outside of it, it was all a facade and he was so angry that he was so good at it.

He tried his hardest to breathe, swallow down the way he felt after the day he had, all in all it wasn’t bad but it just felt empty. He was unsatisfied. He hated more than anything the painful emptiness that had begun to settle and grow between his ribs, it hurt more than bad days. 

Everything was painfully empty, a basic distraction from life because he didn’t really have anything else to do. He didn’t know he was crying until the tears had soaked through his suit pants, it was terrible to feel like he didn’t even have a right to cry, he had a good life and yet he’d toss it all away if he would never feel like this again.

**Author's Note:**

> its been about a year since I've posted anything on here, Id like to get back to it and maybe regularly do something. This was short and its felt unfinished for a long time but I don't really have anything to add onto it. I have to learn how to end my stories, even if they're short LOL. 
> 
> Thanks for giving it a read even if it wasn't really worth it. I really appreciate it!


End file.
